


Spidey's Biggest Fan

by im_your_mom_now



Series: Kidnapped Peter Stories [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Concussions, Head Injury, High School Student Peter Parker, Kidnapped Peter Parker, Tired Peter Parker, but like the kidnapper is also a kid lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:00:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29771016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_your_mom_now/pseuds/im_your_mom_now
Summary: Peter sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm always happy to meet fans and all, but I have stuff to do in the morning and I really need my mask, so—""What? Noooo, I told you that you can't leave yet!" the kid complains. "I have some movies we can watch, do you like Star Trek?""I prefer Star Wars," Peter replies, "but I'm not staying here to watch movies with you, we aren't friends.""But I'm your biggest fan!""You hit me with a hammer and handcuffed me in your basement."__Or: A lonely kid just wants a friend, so he kidnaps Spider-Man. Much to his misfortune, Spider-Man is a high school student with a Spanish test to study for.__This work is part of a series, but it is meant to be read as a stand-alone as the stories in the series are all unrelated.
Series: Kidnapped Peter Stories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154927
Comments: 12
Kudos: 59





	Spidey's Biggest Fan

**Author's Note:**

> This was just something fun I decided to write. I hope you enjoy it!

Patrol is Peter's excuse for not studying. He usually does fine on tests anyways— _Tony Stark,_ a genius himself, considers Peter to be a genius, after all—so he doesn't really need to study for his Spanish final tomorrow. It's even after his lunch period, so he'd have that time to look over vocab words.

Aunt May would argue that studying always comes before Spider-Man, but Peter would beg to differ. Saving lives and helping the citizens of Queens is a much better way to pass time on a Sunday evening than flipping through flimsy notecards with English scrawled on one side and sloppy Spanish on the other.

Besides, if he was stuck in his room studying, he wouldn't be soaring through the streets of New York City on that beautiful May evening feeling higher than the clouds. The adrenaline runs through his veins as he scans the streets for any crime.

"Hey, Karen," Peter says between _thwips_ of his web-shooters, "Do you think aliens have a whole different set of memes, or have they just been living memeless this whole time?"

_"I am uncertain of the answer. Would you like me to contact the extraterrestrials in my databases?"_

"Nah, it's cool." Peter pauses, swinging from a tall building and landing on a shorter one's roof. "Wait, what extraterrestrials' contact information do you have?"

" _Thor Odinson—_ "

"Wait, wait, hold on," Peter cuts her off, waving his hands around. "You're telling me that I've been able to call Thor all this time, and you're just letting me know this now?"

" _My apologies. I was not aware you wanted to contact Thor Odinson."_

 _"_ Uh, who _wouldn't_ want to?" Peter asks incredulously. "I mean, I don't think I'll ever be not-awkward enough to call him, but just knowing that I can is enough of an honor, 'cuz . . ." He trails off, a prickle at the base of his neck alerting him of danger. Turning and scanning his surroundings, he deducts that it isn't him that's in danger.

Peter steps closer to the edge and peers down below at the street.

His eyes blow wide as he takes in the sight of a grown man, probably drunk by the way he's struggling for balance, cornering a kid in an alleyway.

Peter doesn't hesitate to swing over and land behind the man. He's about to land a punch square in the kid's face. The kid—a nerdy boy no older than thirteen—looks terrified.

Before the man can swing his fist, Peter catches his arm and throws him to the ground and webs him there. The kid's eyes flash to Peter and widen considerably. The man on the ground lets out a low string of slurred curses.

"Hey," Peter says, unsure of how to address this kid who is only a few years younger than him. "You good? He didn't hurt you or anything, right?"

The kid quickly starts to shake his head, then stops. He nods. "He, uh, I think he hurt my wrist."

The man grumbles, "Did'n even touch the brat yet."

"Yeah, okay, sure," Peter says curtly, and the boy extends his wrist for Peter to see. He's only sixteen, so he definitely isn't a medical professional, but he should still check out this kid's injury to make sure it isn't too severe.

When he gets closer, he doesn't see anything wrong with the wrist. The pale, unmarked skin glints in the streetlights.

"I don't see anything," Peter observes, tilting his head. "Do you think it's sprained or . . . Wha— _Hey_!"

Peter's danger senses blare as the kid suddenly grabs his arm and pulls a out a hammer from his back pocket. Before Peter can make a move, the kid uses the dull end to slam against Peter's temple.

He feels a flash of pain and the world rushes up towards him, but the darkness pulls him under just before he can feel the impact.

•

Consciousness arrives with a throbbing pain in his skull. He inhales sharply, eyes fluttering open but quickly closing when the light sends a sharp pain through his head.

He's still working on opening his eyes when he feels something wet and sticky drip from his temple to his eyebrow. He goes to wipe it off, but his arms don't move. Something jingles.

 _Wait_.

Peter's eyes snap open.

Dragging his gaze across his surroundings, confusion—with an inkling of fear—grips his heart.

He's maskless in a chilly medium-sized room with concrete floors and dim lighting. A light bulb dangles above Peter like a spotlight.

Judging from the wooden staircase against the wall to his right, the overwhelming sounds of rushing water in pipes all around him, and muffled voices coming from above his head, he'd say he's in a basement.

Peter looks down at himself. He's sitting in an old wooden chair with his arms handcuffed behind him. With a little tug on the restraints, he realizes they're normal handcuffs. He scoffs.

His captors clearly don't understand that he can rip through metal as easily as he can tear through paper.

The thought of his captors brings his mind to a screeching halt.

That kid with the hammer did this. It wasn't a super villain, or evil scientists, or even an adult. It was a kid younger than Peter.

He closes his eyes and leans his head back, the light burning his eyes through his eyelids. Kid or not, the hammer did a number on him. He wouldn't be surprised if he had a concussion. In fact, he's 98% sure he has one. His head throbs, and the light above him is nauseating. He never thought he'd say this, but he'd much rather be studying without a concussion and not in a stranger's basement.

Speaking of which, where the hell is the kid anyways?

The longer he sits in that dark room by himself, the more he wishes he chose to study over patrolling for once. At least he'd be bored and learning instead of just bored.

Peter waits another few minutes by himself before he realizes he's just wasting his time. He was thinking about waiting to face the kid so he could grab his mask before he broke the chains and swung back home, but now he just wants to speed things up. Craning his neck to look at the rickety ceiling above him, he wonders who all is in the house. He can detect at least two heartbeats and hears a laugh track from a sitcom playing on a TV.

If he breaks out of the handcuffs now and charges up there, what will he face? Based off what he can hear, he highly doubts there's a bunch of people, so he could probably take whoever's home.

There's still the whole maskless thing, though. He doesn't even know where his mask is. And he really doesn't want to have to tell Mr. Stark that he lost the expensive mask, and then that will lead to him finding out that at least one more person—a stranger—knows his identity, and that he was kidnapped, and that the kidnapper was a kid himself. 

Yeah. He isn't going to let Mr. Stark know about this.

Snapping the handcuffs effortlessly, Peter flexes his hands and rips the cuffs from around his wrists. They clang against the floor beside his feet.

Just as Peter's standing, the door at the top of the wooden staircase opens. He watches, alert, as the kid from the alley bounds down the rickety stairs. He doesn't notice Peter until he reaches the bottom and looks up, eyes widening and his whole body freezing like a deer in headlights.

Peter sizes him up: wiry, thick glasses, beanie, Spider-Man t-shirt under a jacket, and a busted lip. He honestly reminds Peter of himself at that age—tiny, nerdy, and bullied—except Peter never kidnapped a superhero. Or anyone, for that matter. It never even once crossed his mind.

But what confuses him the most is the fact that this kid seems to be a fan of Spider-Man (hence the shirt), yet he gave him a concussion and kidnapped him.

Peter crosses his arms and raises his chin slightly. "Where's my mask?"

The kid's eyes flicker between Peter, the chair, and the broken handcuff fragments. Finally, his gaze settles on Peter. "You can't leave!"

"I beg your pardon?" Peter asks, blinking.

The kid runs a hand through his messy hair. "This wasn't how this was supposed to go!" His voice is high and whiney. "How did you get out of the handcuffs?"

Peter raises a brow. "Uh . . . I have super-strength?"

The kid face-palms. "Of course! I knew that, I swear I knew Spider-Man has super-strength, I just forgot."

Peter looks at him oddly.

"I mean," the kid continues, starting to pace, "I know, like, everything about Spider-Man. He can jump really far, he has high stamina, he has this spider-senses, he can—"

Peter tunes him out and looks around. Why is this guy talking about him like he isn't talking to him?

"Hey," Peter says, cutting the kid off, "I'm always happy to meet fans and all, but I have stuff to do in the morning and I really need my mask, so—"

"What? Noooo, I told you that you can't leave yet!" the kid complains. "I have some movies we can watch, do you like _Star Trek_?"

"I prefer _Star Wars_ ," Peter replies, "but I'm not staying here to watch movies with you, we aren't friends."

"But I'm your biggest fan!"

"You hit me with a _hammer_ and handcuffed me in your basement."

The kid folds in on himself, his eyes darting to the floor as a blush crosses his pale cheeks. "I have a hard time making friends. I don't really . . . I don't have any. I just—I look up to Spider-Man, a lot, and I just knew that we'd get along well."

Peter looks at him incredulously. "So you kidnapped me?"

The kid scratches the back of his neck. "I told you that I'm not very good at making friends."

Unbelievable. Peter's arms fall to his sides and he turns, scanning the basement and shaking his head. When he turns back to the kid who still doesn't have a name, he levels, "Look, random kid—"

"Phillip."

Peter ignores him. "I get what you mean, okay? I've always been bullied in school and I've always been the weakest link. Making friends was not my forte. But kidnapping people is _not_ the solution."

"Come on, just give it a chance," Phillip pleads, folding his hands together. "I promise we'll be, like, best friends. We can have sleep overs, and we can send each other memes, and you can swing me around the city."

The clear-as-day desperation and loneliness almost pains Peter. He wasn't lying when he said that he understood where Phillip was coming from. For the longest time, Peter never had any friends. He was lucky when he met Ned in eighth grade during band call outs, and he was lucky when MJ decided to sit next to them at lunch.

Not a lot of people know how it feels to be the loser, the loner, the unwanted extra who never fit in.

But Peter can't be this kid's friend.

 _But_ Peter also can't just ditch the kid, not without feeling immensely guilty.

"I'll level with you," Peter compromises, "how about I just hang out here til . . ." He pauses. "What time is it?"

"Eight."

"I'll hang out with you for half an hour, then I'll leave so I can continue patrolling the city," Peter offers with a smile that probably seems too forced.

Phillip frowns and crosses his arms. "No, you'll stay here as long as I want you to."

Peter sighs. This kid has got to get better people skills. "Look, I'm trying to be nice. I don't have to do anything you want me to, and I could get you in trouble for literally assaulting and kidnapping me." He sounds like a little kid threatening to tattle, but it's true, Phillip could get in big trouble, he literally committed a crime. You can't just hit people with hammers, drag them to your basement, and be all buddy-buddy with them. Peter may not be adept at social interactions, but even he knows that isn't how things work.

"You can't tell my mom," Phillip warns, voice low.

"I was thinking more like the police."

Phillip throws his arms out and sputters, "W-What? Why?"

"Again," Peter says, growing impatient, "assault and kidnapping is a crime."

"But we're _friends_."

"No we're _not,"_ he emphasizes. Fuck, his head still hurts. The thought of patrolling doesn't even help, he just wants to _go home_. "Okay, I'm going to go now, so give me my mask." He steps forward with his hand extended.

Phillip looks at the hand, then shifts his gaze to Peter's face. "No."

 _Oh my gosh_ , what is this kid's problem? "Don't make me call backup." Okay, so he seriously doesn't want Tony to know about any of this, but it might have to come down to that after all.

Fear slips into Phillip's expression before it's washed away by a smug look. "How would you call for backup?"

"With my—" He pats his suit pocket, but it's flat. His eyes dart to Phillip's. Voice lowering, he grounds out, "Where's my phone."

"With your mask," Phillip replies with his head held high and a smirk. "You don't get them back until we—"

"Philly?" a high-pitched, scratchy woman's voice calls out from above that makes Phillip's spin around with an alarmed look, his eyes glued to the closed door at the top of the staircase. "Who's that you're talking to?"

As he stumbles over a response, the door opens. Phillip whips back around to Peter and hastily rips his jacket off to throw at Peter, then his beanie follows. The hero catches both.

"Put it on over the suit and cover the blood on your face!" Phillip hisses, then turns to the stairs as they creak under someone's weight.

At first Peter thinks, _I'm not fucking putting this kid's jacket on,_ then he remembers that he's maskless and, if Phillip is trying to cover his suit up, then this lady doesn't know about his identity. And the less people who know, the better.

Peter is just zipping it up to his chin when a middle-aged, plump woman emerges. Her eyes find Peter and she leans back, confusion and elation mixing in her crystal blue eyes.

Phillip plasters a nervous smile on his face and sets his hands on his hips, then crosses his arms. "Hey, mom."

Shifting her gaze to Phillip, the woman wiggles a finger at Peter. "Who's this young man?"

"Roger," Phillip blurts, sending Peter a desperate look before returning his attention to his mother. "He's from school."

"Oh." The woman's cherry red lips curl in a delighted smile. "Are you in eight grade, too?"

"No," Peter says the same time Phillip says, "Yes."

They glance at each other.

Phillip explains, "Well, he is, but he got held back a bunch, so he's technically supposed to be a sophomore."

Peter tries not to appear as offended as he feels. He wasn't 'held back a bunch,' he skipped seventh grade, thank you very much. 

"Yeah," he says, lying straight through his teeth. "Math gets me every time."

Understanding fills the woman's face. "I know what you mean, I was never a math whiz." She takes a step up towards the door. "I'll let you two have your boy time, I'm going to go finish up with the dishes. And Roger—" She flashes him a smile. "It was nice meeting you, you seem like a real nice boy."

Phillip keeps the blinding smile on his face until his mother shuts the door behind her. As soon as she's gone, his lips drop and he turns back to Peter just as he's unzipping the jacket and throwing it back at him.

"Okay, fun and games are over," Peter snaps. "Give me my stuff back and I _won't_ web you to the wall and report you to the cops."

Phillip's face hardens. "Why are you being such a dick? I thought Spider-Man was going to be nicer than this."

"I just want to go home, dude," Peter groans. "I have stuff to do in the morning."

Phillip shrugs. "Doesn't mean you have to be an asshole."

"Okay, that's it," Peter grumbles, flicking his wrist and webbing Phillip's feet to the concrete floor. Before he can complain, he webs his mouth shut, too, making sure not to cover his nostrils so he can still breathe.

He wiggles as he tries to pull his legs up, but he doesn't budge.

Peter passes him, taking the beanie off his head and placing it back on Phillip's sideways. "Nice meeting you, Phillip. My lawyers will be giving you a visit sometime."

That's not even an empty threat. As much as Peter loathes the idea of telling Mr. Stark what happened tonight, he knows it isn't smart to let a kid who knows his identity—at least somewhat—go and tell all his little classmates that Spider-Man is a teenager with brown eyes, brown hair, etc. Mr. Stark would want to know about this. Knowing him, he'd probably send a few lawyers to swing by and have Phillip sign an NDA.

For now, Peter focuses on sneaking out of the basement on light feet and finding his way to Phillip's bedroom. It isn't hard to find; the door is wide open and is cluttered with nerdy toys and posters. It reminds Peter of his own bedroom, only more extreme. Plus, this kid likes _Star Trek_ over _Star_ _Wars_. Someone should call J.J. Jameson and tell him who the real menace is.

Peter pilfers through drawers and cabinets before finding his mask and phone in Phillip's underwear drawer. He stifles a snort at the sight of the Avengers underwear. There is a little bit of pride when he sees that Spider-Man is included, but it's overpowered by the second-hand embarrassment.

As soon as Peter pulls the mask on, Karen comes to life.

"Hey, K. Long time no see."

" _It has been approximately one hour since you have taken off the mask._ "

"Really? It felt like a lifetime," Peter mutters, making his way to the window before unlocking it and pushing it open. As he crawls out, he asks, "Where am I? Am I even in Queens anymore?"

" _You are in Middle Village._ "

"Oh."

That's not bad. He can still get home in a timely manner. The ache in his head still rattles his brain around, but he can already feel the injury healing itself.

He swings past some houses and pulls up Ned's contact on his phone. As soon as the boy picks up, Peter says, "Dude, you won't _believe_ what just happened."


End file.
